


Only One in the World

by thegingerbatch (WendyBird)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/thegingerbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has no right to look this good on John's wedding day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only One in the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agnesanutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnesanutter/gifts).



“Do you have any idea,” John growls against his throat, “how bloody delicious you look in that suit?”

Sherlock blinks, taking a moment to formulate a response. He is pressed against the wall of an expensive hotel room, the room where they’re meant to be, ostensibly, getting ready for the wedding. John’s mouth finds its way to his ear, nipping at the lobe before letting his tongue trace the shell. He shudders, his hands fumbling at John’s back, struggling to find a grip on the taught fabric of his jacket.

“I can deduce from your behaviour that I— _oh_ —look satisfactory.”

A dark chuckle from John, who drops his hands to grip Sherlock’s hips. “Deduced that, did you?” He tugs Sherlock closer, grinding his erection into the detective’s thigh. “All on your own, too,” he breathes, smiling wickedly.

And oh, Christ, Sherlock’s knees are actually _trembling._ Embarrassment stains his cheeks, but he’s already so flushed from John’s ministrations it hardly makes a difference. John shoves one hand between them, and Sherlock absolutely does not _mean_ to rut against his palm, but his body is demanding friction, and it chases the opportunity eagerly. 

“Look at you, hard for me. Are you wet already?” John squeezes— _too tight, not tight enough_ —and Sherlock whimpers. “How long before you soak through to your trousers, I wonder?”

“John, we shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t muss the suits, you’re absolutely right.” His fingers trail lower, fondling Sherlock’s balls through layers of fabric.

Sherlock bites back a groan. “Not what I was going to say, you tw— _ah!_ ” John has managed to work his lips below Sherlock’s collar and is busying himself sucking a mark there. “God, John, someone’s going to hear. You can’t—”

John leaves off teasing him long enough to pull his head down and shut him up with a bruising kiss. “I bloody well can,” he says when he pulls back. He snorts. “Swanning about in this get up, looking the way you do, and on my _wedding_ day. It’s not decent, Sherlock.”

John is radiating heat, and Sherlock can feel sweat breaking out along his brow, trickling down his back. He licks his lips, and John’s eyes track the movement. He’s out of excuses and pinned in place by the hunger in those dark blue eyes.

“Please,” he manages to whisper. 

John smiles. “Begging already. And here I thought you’d forget to get me a wedding present.” His short fingers make quick work of Sherlock’s flies, and the last of Sherlock’s self-control evaporates like the sweat on his overheated skin. John growls, capturing his lips again, and his tongue traces the roof of Sherlock’s mouth like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. His fingers slip inside Sherlock’s trousers, pausing for a moment to trace the outline of his cock through his thin cotton pants. Sherlock’s hips roll shallowly, ineffectively. He bites down on John’s bottom lip in frustration.

This only seems to encourage John, who uses both hands to roughly shove both trousers and pants down around Sherlock’s thighs. His erection bobs free, and John rucks up Sherlock’s shirt and waistcoat, letting his fingers trail over the sparse hair on Sherlock’s belly.

Sherlock sucks in a breath as John’s hands dip lower. Fingertips ghost along the length of his prick, inquisitive and proprietary all at once. Again, he thrusts his hips in an attempt to find some kind of release, but all it earns him is a low _tsk_ from John.

“Easy,” John murmurs, and Sherlock could murder him. John’s fingers form a loose fist around his cock, idly sliding back the foreskin. A firm swipe of his thumb across the leaking head, and Sherlock goes boneless, sagging against the wall. “Oh,” says John, the same way he sometimes says _Amazing_ or _Brilliant_ or _Incredible_. 

Then he drops to his knees, and Sherlock hardly has time to balance himself before John is nuzzling at his groin, smelling him. His perfect pink tongue darts out, licking a stripe along the joint of thigh and torso. Sherlock’s cock pulses in John’s hand, and he grins wickedly. John pulls back slowly, until that thin bottom lip is neatly nestled against the underside of Sherlock’s cock. 

“ _Christ._ ” Sherlock’s head hits the wall with a dull thud, his eyes falling shut. 

“No,” John says. His lips move against the head of Sherlock’s prick as he speaks, and one of Sherlock’s thighs starts to quiver in an entirely humiliating manner. “No, you watch,” John commands. “I want you to watch. Want you to remember.”

Sherlock body obeys automatically, his eyes snapping open. “John.” His voice is soft, the chemicals his brain is pumping into his bloodstream making his tongue thick and lazy. John blinks up at him. Sherlock’s fingers find his jawline, trace the hair behind his ear. John leans into the touch, his smirk edged with sweetness.

“Hush,” he says, and _sucks_. 

An embarrasingly high-pitched moan escapes Sherlock’s lips, and he crams a hand against his mouth quickly, biting down on the skin between his thumb and forefinger. 

John’s mouth is relentless, his pace punishing. Sherlock won’t last like this. His hand clenches and unclenches in John’s hair.  

“John, I can’t—“

John pulls off, tonguing at Sherlock’s bollocks. “You can,” he says. 

Sherlock takes himself in hand, stroking quickly. John gives a satisfied grunt and, with some manuevering, manages to get both of Sherlock’s testicles into his mouth. He sucks gently, and Sherlock’s eyes roll back into his head. His hand strokes faster, faster—

“Ah, ah.” John pulls back again, kissing the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, the crease of his groin. “The suits.”

Sherlock is halfway through a moan of complaint when John’s lips are once again at the head of his cock. 

“Now,” says John, and swallows him again. 

It takes two strokes, Sherlock’s hand damp with sweat and John’s spit, the tip of his prick cradled against John’s tongue, and then Sherlock is coming, one leg shaking wildly, his mouth open in an undignified groan. 

The knock at the door makes them both jump.

“John? Sherlock? You guys in there?”

John looks up, Sherlock's rapidly softening cock still in his mouth. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock whispers. John’s eyes widen in mock innocence, and he tongues at the over-sensitive length in his mouth. Sherlock has to stifle a yelp.

Lestrade knocks again.  

“Guys?” It’s less a question than an admonishment. “Wedding’s in five minutes. You were supposed to be—“

“In a minute,” Sherlock calls. His voice sounds strangled.

“Are you—?“ There’s a pause from the other side of the door.

“We’re _coming_.”

John finally tucks Sherlock back into his pants, leaning his forehead against one pale thigh. “Well, one of us,” he mutters.

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heat.

“Look, they sent me to fetch you, I can’t just—“

John clambers to his feet. “We’ll be there, Greg. Just—“ He pulls Sherlock’s head down to plant a kiss on his lips. “Just give us a minute.”

There’s an exasperated sigh from the other side of the door, and then the sounds of feet stomping away down the hallway.

Sherlock brushes down the front of John’s suit, his legs still unsteady. “You didn’t—“ He gestures to the front of John’s trousers.

“Mmmm, no.” John kisses him again. “But the noises you make—not a bad wedding gift, I think.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide from John to the door and back again. “We don’t…we don’t have to go.”

“Can’t miss my own wedding, Sherlock. Not good, that.”

“But—“

Another kiss. “Shh.”

Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s for a long moment. “I love you, you know.” He says the words quietly. 

There’s no smirk on John’s lips. “I love you, too.”

“So?”

_ “ _ So.”

John steps back. “Shall we?”

Sherlock swallows. Nods. Something is hot behind his eyes. They feel too small for his skull. “I’m not sure I can—“

John reaches down, finding his hand and lacing their fingers together.

“It’s my wedding day, Sherlock. I need you there.” He strokes the skin on the back of Sherlock’s hand, a warm smile illuminating his face. “Bit hard to get married without my husband, after all.”

The tears in Sherlock’s eyes threaten to spill over. “Husband,” he repeats, low and trembling. “John Watson’s _husband._ ”

John laughs softly. “The only one in the world.” 


End file.
